Deadly
by simplyleah
Summary: Bella can see ghosts. She is a mediator, a liaison between the living and the dead. It’s never been too much trouble—she helps them, they go away. But Jasper, the hot ghost haunting her new bedroom, doesn’t seem to want her help. FULL SUMMARY INSIDE
1. Chapter 1

**_FULL SUMMARY: _Isabella can see ghosts. She is a mediator, a liaison between the living and the dead. It's never been too much trouble—she helps them, they go away. But Jasper, the hot ghost haunting her new bedroom, doesn't seem to want her help. Which is a relief, because Isabella's just moved from her rainy town of Forks, Washington to sunny Arizona, and plans to start fresh, with trips to Fashion Square Mall instead of the cemetery, and hiking the huge mountain behind her house instead of being forced to call up family members of the dead.**

**But when things start to go awry, Isabella realizes it may not be that easy.**

**_DISCLAIMER: a lot of stuff in this first chapter, and majority of the one following it, is from THE MEDIATOR: SHADOWLAND by Meg Cabot, with slight alterations to fit with my plotline. _**

_**Please bear with me until the actual story gets started.**

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**CHAPTER one**

They told me there would be palm trees.

I didn't believe them, but that's what they told me. They told me I'd see them the moment I stepped off the plane.

Oh, I know they have palm trees in southern _California_. I mean, I'm not a _complete_ moron_. _But I was moving to Arizona. I mean, there was no beach. I didn't expect to see palm trees in Arizona. Especially not after mom told me that I needed to keep all my jackets.

"It may not get as cold as it does in Washington," she'd told me, "but it can still get pretty chilly."

I'm not resentful of the fact that she decided to marry a guy who lives hundreds of miles away, forcing me to leave school in the middle of my sophomore year; abandon the best—and pretty much only—friend I've had since middle school; leave the small town I've been living in all my sixteen years.

Oh, no. I'm not resentful in the least.

But, the thing is, I really do like my new stepfather, Billy. He makes her happy, and he's nice to me.

It's just this whole moving-to-Arizona thing that bugs me.

That, and the fact that Billy has three other kids.

They were all there when I got off the plane. My mom, Billy, and Billy's three sons. Jacob, Embry, and Emmett. My new step brothers.

"Bella!" Even if I hadn't heard my mom squealing my name as I walked through the gate, I wouldn't have missed them—my new family. Billy was making his two youngest sons hold up this big sign that said:

WELCOME HOME, ISABELLA!

Everybody getting off my flight was walking by it, going "Aw, how cute," to their travel companions, and smiling at me in this sickening way.

"Okay," I said, walking up to my new family quickly. "You can put the sign down now."

But my mom was too busy hugging me to pay any attention. "Oh, Bella!" she kept saying. I hated when anyone but my mom called me Bella, so I shot the boys this mean look, just in case they were getting any big ideas. They just kept grinning at me from over the stupid sign. Embry, because he was too young to know any better; Emmett because—well, I guess _he _might've actually been happy to see me. Emmett's weird that way. Jacob, the middle one, just because he knew it bugged me.

"How was the flight?" Billy took my bag off my shoulder, and put it on his own. Mom scooped up three-year-old Embry, and we started for the moving walkways. I looked out the large windows. Not a palm tree in sight.

"If you disregard the fact that the kid behind me kicked my chair the entire way here, and the person next to me had a baby that cried the entire flight," I told him, "It was amazing." I flashed a toothy, exaggerated smile.

Billy laughed. "It couldn't have been _that _bad!"

"_The walkway will be ending in ten feet. Please watch your step." _

We stumbled off the walkway, and got onto the next one. "Dad," Emmett cut in. "The last time you flew, it was in our jet, so if I was you, I'd stop talking before Izzy here bangs your head in."

Oh, and did I mention—Billy's totally rich?

"Jake, please hit your brother for me," Billy said, mock-serious. "If I did it, it would be considered abuse, but if _you _do it . . . well, no one would really care."

Emmett gasped jokingly. "You wouldn't dare!"

Jake raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I wouldn't? Are you sure?"

My mom laughed. I glanced outside, at the blazing sun and desert setting.

I swallowed. "How hot is it, exactly?"

"Only eighty-something, sweetheart," Mom soothed. We got into an elevator, and Emmett pushed PL2, which I assume was Parking Level 2.

"Oh. Okay. That's . . . good?"

Billy laughed. "Yeah, it is, Isabella. Just wait till it hits the hundreds."

"_Hundreds_?" I squeaked. We had reached the parking garage, and Billy clicked his keys. A black Escalade's lights blinked and the engine started up. Mom opened the door on the driver's side, and strapped Embry into his car seat before going back around to the passenger seat. Billy got into the driver's seat, and Jake and Emmett loaded into the back. I followed.

Emmett rolled his eyes at me, scooting over to make room. "Yeah, hundreds." He grinned. "Welcome to Arizona, little sis!"

I narrowed my eyes. Ever since we had met, he'd been teasing me about how his birthday was one day before mine. "I'm going to kill you one day, Emmett Lucas Black. You know that, right?"

"Of course I do, Isabella Marie Swan! And that's precisely why I'm enjoying myself while I still can." He flashed me another smile, and I burst into laughter. Mom and Billy shared a look up front, probably having guessed that Emmett and I would hit it off as siblings.

"You're going to love the house, Isabella!" Mom said. "It's just beautiful!"

"Where is it again?"

"Arcadia, kiddo," Billy answered. "Just in front of Camelback."

_Camelback? Now what the hell is that?_

Emmett must have seen my confused expression. "It's a mountain."

Jake laughed. "When it gets cooler out, we'll take you hiking up it."

"Oh, and Dad may have neglected to tell you something about the lovely Black Manor," Emmett told me.

"What do you mean?"

Mom sighed up front. "It's front the nineteenth century, sweetheart."

"_Nineteenth century_?"

"It's been remodeled and everything," Billy told me. "It was originally a Spanish Colonial boarding house, but we've redone almost everything—"

"The nineteenth century?"

"And the yard has been redone as well—"

"But . . . but that's, like, _two hundred years old!_"

"What's wrong with the nineteenth century?" Emmett wanted to know.

"Isabella has never been very fond of old places," Mom explained.

We were all silent the rest of the drive—even little Embry, who I'd learned rarely made noises, which required someone to always be with him. When we pulled up at the house, I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped to my toes. It was white, with red-ish roofing, and three stories tall. A large mountain loomed up behind it, and the lawn was a crisp green. The doors and window frames were painted dark forest green, and bright flowers dotted the walkway. A wide, paved driveway greeted us. It wound along the side of the home, and then disappeared underground. Large garage doors loomed above the Escalade, and slowly opened to reveal the largest home garage I've ever seen, with at least ten cars, and . . . oh my god! My truck!

I squealed the moment my eyes laid on its rusty frame.

Mom laughed.

"My truck!" I exclaimed, hopping out of the car, and running for my baby.

"Billy got it brought over here for you, baby," my mom said, following after me.

I squealed again. Billy hopped out after wards, and I threw my arms around him before he had the chance to get Embry out of the car. "Thankyouthankyou!" Billy laughed.

"Don't worry about it, Isabella."

I kissed him on the cheek. "I can't imagine how much it cost . . . Thank you so much!"

Billy just laughed again, and went to get Embry out of his seat. Mom grinned at me, a grin that said: 'See? This isn't too bad, is it?' I couldn't help but smile back.

"Well, my dear," Billy said, clapping me on the shoulder. "I don't suppose you'd like to see the house?"

I swallowed around the ball of worry in my throat, and made myself smile. "Of course!"

**[] [] [] [] []**

The inside of the house was just as beautiful as the out. Almost all of the walls were white, with wooden panels stretching across the ceilings. The first room we saw was the kitchen. It was at least four times the size of the one we had had back home, with wood floor and dark green cabinetry. The center island was wooden, with granite countertop. The refrigerator was stainless steel and it, as well as the countertop, seemed out of place amidst all the wood.

The next room we saw was the living room. It was large and white, with impossibly high ceilings and a fireplace, above which a large flat screen television sat. The armchairs and couches were white as well, with stylistically mismatching pillows and bookshelves built into the walls. So far, so good.

The entire bottom floor, all in all, consisted of a kitchen, living room, game room, dining room, family dining room, and helpers' quarters.

We continued through the house, a mixture of antique and modern. The second floor consisted of three bedrooms—the master, Jacob's, and Embry's. The master was huge, and took up nearly half the floor. The bedrooms all had brighter wall colors, such as gold or light yellow, with white ceilings.

When we finally got to the third story, I was dying with anxiety—it was now or never. Something was going to go wrong within the next five minutes or so, or nothing would be going wrong at all.

"Are you ready to see your bedroom?" my mom asked, nearly bouncing with excitement.

I smiled. "Yes!"

She clapped her hands over my eyes.

Billy laughed at his wife's silliness. It was just us three, now—the boys had all disappeared throughout the house.

I nodded. My mom led me forward a few feet, before pulling to a stop. I heard the sound of a door clicking open and Mom's hands dropped from my eyes.

I gasped.

It was huge, about the same size as the kitchen. A king-sized bed was pushed up to the middle of the right wall, with a red bed skirt, golden sheets, and red and gold pillows. The walls were a golden yellow, and a stone fire place was on the wall opposite of the bed. There was a set of doors along the back wall, probably a bathroom and closet, and framed pictures of my mother, father, and I already littered the walls.

It all seemed perfect.

Then I turned back to the fireplace, and saw someone was already sitting in the antique red armchair that my mom and Billy had so lovingly purchased for me.

Someone who was not related to me, or to Jacob, Embry, or Emmett.

Someone who, judging by my mom and Billy's clueless expressions, only I could see.

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**Tell me whether or not i should continue this! I already have the next few chapters done, so it's just a matter of whether or not i should post them!**

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	2. Chapter 2

**Oh, yay! Chapter two! Thanks to those of you who reviewed! I hope you like this one!

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**CHAPTER**** two**

I guess I should explain. I mean, I'm not exactly your typical sixteen-year-old girl.

I've always been this way, and there's no way to change it. I've always liked to think it was an accident—maybe the big man made a mistake. But, then again, if it was a mistake, I would hope He'd find a way to fix it. Now, straight off the bat, you've got to know: I'm not religious at all. In all honesty, I'm fricken Buddhist at most. No, not really. That was a joke. Har-har. Call me your friendly, ghost-seeing, atheist.

My first was when I was a baby—three, I think. I'd been playing with some legos, near the foot of the stairs. The ghost was gray, and small, and appeared out of no where. A young girl, fourteen or fifteen years old. Even today, I don't have a clue who she was.

I'd spoke to her, some jumble of words. She just looked at me sadly, from the top of the stairs. Of course, I'd done the only thing any uncertain child would—I ran for my mother.

And that was when I learned my first lesson concerning ghosts: only I can see them.

Well, obviously _someone _else can see them—I mean, how else would there be haunted houses and ghost stories and all of that crap? But, then again, there is a huge difference—most of those people only see _one_. I see them all.

Every. Single. One.

Anybody who's ever died, and is still hanging out on Earth—for whatever reason—I can see. And, let me tell you, that is _a lot _of ghosts.

Most people—even my own parents—can't see them at all. I mean, nobody I've ever met can. Or, at least, no one who will admit it.

Which brings us to my second lesson on ghosts, also learned on that day, thirteen years ago: It's better, in the long run, not to go telling people you've seen one. Or, in my case, any.

I mean, it's not like my mom actually figured out that the thing I was talking about, pointing to at the top of the stairs, was a ghost. Of course not. She'd just followed my finger, before doing the thing that adults always do to their young children: said something like, "Uh-huh, Bella. Really? That's so cool," then proceeded to ask me what I would like for dinner, soup or a cheese quesedia.

And, even at three, mom's reaction—or lack of it—told me something: the gray person at the top of the stairs was not something to be discussed. Not with anybody, not ever.

And I never did. I never told anyone about that first ghosts, or the hundreds that followed it. In all honesty, there really wasn't even anything _to _discuss. I saw them; they talked to me. And until the time I was in about middle school, I didn't actually understand what they wanted, so they usually went away. End of story.

I really didn't have a clue what I was supposed to be doing until halfway through eighth grade, when I got a visit from the most unlikely person—my father.

Charlie had been chief of police through my childhood, until he'd been shot on the scene when I was ten. I had, of course, always hoped that maybe he would be one of the ghosts I came across. But, by this time, three years later, I'd all but given up. I mean, who would want to linger on earth for three _years _after you'd died?

But, unlike what everyone told me, I _did _see him again. Honestly, I think I see him more now than I did when he was alive. When he'd been alive, he was always working. Now that he's dead, he doesn't have all that much to do, and tends to drop by in the most annoying times.

At the time of his first visit, I'd been sitting on my bed, pretending to work on my Algebra homework, while I was really just daydreaming, waiting for a ghost to interrupt my boring afternoon, when a Jelly-Belly jelly bean—a red one, my favorite—landed on my workbook.

I'd fallen off my bed in surprise, taking my binder down with me.

"Isabella?" my mom's voice called, obviously having heard my crash. "You all right?"

But I was too busy staring at my dad, dead for three years, to respond.

He was wearing his classic outfit: nice black pants, black tie, black shirt with deputy badges on the sleeves, and black tie-up sneakers. Oh, and a snazzy black belt with his usual—two guns, one on each side, can of pepper spray, pager, walkie-talkie, and cell phone.

All in all, the greatest dad on earth—Charles Daniel Swan.

He was grinning largely, a bag of Jelly-Belly jelly beans in his hands. I was speechless— would you know what to say to your dead dad?

My door crashed open then, pulling my eyes from my father. There stood Renee, my mom, apron and all. She laughed at the sight of my on the floor, pillows and all.

I swallowed. "I fell off the bed."

Mom grinned. "I can see that." I stuck my tongue out at her jokingly. She rolled her eyes. "I'm making chicken soup for dinner," she tells me. "You want anything special for desert?" I just shook my head, anxious to get back to my father. She smiled. "All righty." She shut my door and I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.

Dad was staring after her longingly, a sad smile on his lips. "She's still so beautiful."

"Dad," I groaned, as quietly as possible, in only a way that Isabella Swan can after her dead father reappears before her.

He turned his attention to me, and reached out a hand to help me up. I brushed it off, and got up on my own. I slammed my Algebra book shut, and tossed it down with my binder. Dad was staring at me, I could feel it.

"Where've you been?" I asked finally, looking up.

"Terrorizing my mother," he teased. Grammy Swan was really jumpy, and my dad and I had always teased her about it. I stared at him. "Fine, fine. I know. Not funny." He took a deep breath, and sat down on the end of my bed. "I honestly don't know," he told me. "But I know where you've been." He holds my gaze, the Jelly-Belly bag crinkling between his fingertips. "I also know you haven't been doing your job."

"Job? What are you—"

He leans forward, and drops a firm, but transparent, hand on my shoulder. "The ghosts, Isabella. You're supposed to _help _them, honey. Not stare at them until they disappear."

"Help them?" I scoffed. "And how am I supposed to do that?"

_Pause. _

Okay, so I'm not going to go into detail, 'cause I don't really remember what happened word for word, but I can tell you this: my dad was the one who finally explained everything to me. I guess you could say that, in a way, my dad's dying was a good thing, since I may not have ever known otherwise.

And, what I derived from his _lovely _visit was this: I am the contact person for virtually anyone who croaks and leaves things with loose ends. Then, if I can, I tie them all up.

That's really the only way I can think to explain it. I am pretty much normal in every other aspect. I just have the _uncanny _ability to talk to the dead. And not just any dead.

No, I never get the ones who died happily, at the right time and in the right place. Of course not. I'm the schmuck who has the pleasurable job of dealing with the cranky dead people, solve their problems, and send them wherever they're supposed to go, because _I'm _the mediator.

And that's just the basics—for the people who know why they're still sticking around. Majority don't have a _clue _why they didn't skip off into the afterlife. Trust me, this is not a fate I would wish on _anyone. _

There isn't a whole lot of payoff in this field—not even hourly rewards. No donuts, or Jelly-Beans. Generally it's a constant hassle, being pestered by pissed off folks who nobody but you can see. The fact is, a lot of dead people are really rude. And they can get _rough. _Like, they try to hurt people. Purposely. That's usually when I get tough, and set out to kick some transparent ghost ass. And when I kick ghost ass . . . things can get _pretty _messy.

Of course, I had no intention of demolishing my new bedroom.

I plastered a smile on my face, and turned back to Billy and my mom. "I love it! Thank you so much!"

Billy grinned, and proceeded to show me all of the interesting gadgets he installed—clap-on lights, surround sound (for the T.V.), the Jacuzzi bathtub in my restroom, the rotating clothing rack in the closet (something I did not doubt my aforementioned friend Alice would go crazy over) and other fun stuff. It was amazing, really, to see how determined Billy was for me to be happy here.

After awhile, Billy and my mom ran out of things to talk about, and headed down to get dinner going. I shut the door behind them, and waited until I couldn't hear their heavy footfalls as they ventured downstairs, and then I turned around.

"Okay, then," I said, to the intruder who was still positioned in the red armchair. "Who the _hell _are you, and why are you in my bedroom?"

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**Well, another chapter down!**

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